The Rose Tattoo
by Vaysh11
Summary: A drunken tattoo becomes the anchor and compass in Draco's life. - The quotes in the story are from Dropkick Murphy's song "Rose Tattoo".


\- x -

_The pictures tell the story..._

"Why'd he do it? What d'you think?" Words are complicated little buggers. Draco slurs them together like he's forgotten where they start and end. He can't help it. The Leaky is filled with a golden mist. Everything is warm and the floor is heaving. Just a little bit, one inch up, another inch down. It's like the moment before the stairs at Hogwarts start moving. Hoggy-hoggy-hogwarts... He won't go there this autumn like he planned to. Like he wanted to. Won't catch the Express come September. Won't catch this train, no, he won't.

But he won't go to Azkaban, either. Draco laughs. No sharing a cell with Father. No time under the thumb of those Mudblood guards. No being locked up in darkness. No doing time at all, _at all_.

"He always had a thing for you." Pansy's voice is warm at Draco's ear.

"Did not." He's not slurring the words this time. If Draco knows one thing for certain it's that Potter never liked him. Never. Hated his guts, is more like it. From that first bloody hand-shake that never happened to the blasted trials where Potter never showed up, thank you very much. But now...

Pansy sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a best friend who knows better. She always does know better. But she doesn't know Potter like Draco does. Judgemental git.

"He did get you probation." Pansy touches his thigh. Her hand is warm and light. Draco wants her hand to move higher and cover his cock.

"Yeah, yeah, but why?" he says, wishing it was Potter beside him, wishing it was Potter's hand on his thigh. "Why he'd do it?"

"He has thing for you." Pansy looks smug. Her black fringe falls into her eyes. It's a lovely sight. But her eyes are not green.

Draco shakes his head. The movement makes giggles slide up his throat. He laughs again, can't help it. The smoke of the Leaky fills his mind. It's beautiful here. He holds on to the glass of Firewhiskey in front of him. If he lets go, he'll slide to the rolling floor. Pansy's hand is still on his thigh, unmoving. It steadies him. He'd sleep with her tonight if she wanted him. But she's never wanted him. _Boys_, she'd told him once, _don't do it for me._

Boys do it for him, do it very much. He doesn't have to go to Azkaban. He can think of boys again. His future doesn't exactly look bright. But there is no Azkaban cell in the picture anymore. The Leaky smells of greasy food and sweat. But it's not the Dementor smell that clings to Father's robes whenever he's home from Azkaban for day release. Draco takes a deep breath – garlic, mould, beer, clove and underneath it all the scent of vinegar from the floor cleaner Tom uses on the aged boards. It smells like home here, like freedom, and like Potter, bloody Potter... Sod the git.

"What'm I goin' to do now?" he mumbles to himself but Pansy hears him.

She squeezes his thigh. "Come," she says and stands.

There's a shining pile of Galleons on the table. Draco finishes off his glass. No need to let it go to waste. They ordered Ogden's which is bloody expensive if you don't have access to your Gringotts vaults.

"Where to?" He has no idea what Pansy is up to. She is not going back to Hogwarts, either. Blaise is the only Slytherin from their year who is allowed back. The floor boards stretch out towards the Leaky's entrance. They look like train tracks going downhill and they are moving like the staircases at Hogwarts. Draco is lifted up and he is falling...

Pansy catches him just in time. Her warm hand slides around his waist. "Out," she says with more determination than Draco thinks anyone could muster after that many shots of Firewhiskey. He turns around to look over his shoulder. He tries but cannot count how many empty glasses remain on the table they just left. It doesn't matter. Pansy pushes him towards the door and out into the warm air.

"Where to?" he asks again.

"Knockturn," she says and laughs that bright carefree laugh of her. She leans close and whispers, "I think you need another tattoo." Her eyes shine in the yellow light of the street lamp that Draco is leaning against.

"Right," he says. _Another one?_ he thinks. And likes the idea, likes it very much.

\- x -

_I'd take a drag from last night's cigarette..._

It was summer, the middle of August, the August after the Dark Lord had gone down. The first August in years that Draco could enjoy without a snake-shaped megalomaniac in his home. Only, home now was their old flat in London, in a townhouse that had been fashionable once, Draco assumed, way back in the age of horse-drawn carriages and Jack the Ripper. The flat still harboured a certain old-fashioned elegance but it lacked severely in comforts. It didn't help that the only house-elf left to them was a decrepit creature Draco hadn't even known they had amongst their possessions. All other elves were sold when the Manor was seized, and he and Mother had to move to London.

A warm afternoon glow was lying on the roofs of the buildings opposite his window. The light did not reach Draco's room. Cold air was gliding over his naked thighs and he shivered. The only warm thing was the cigarette between his fingers. It was the last one left from the packages he'd brought with him from the Manor – from a yellow, slightly crumbled carton of cigarettes. Draco had smoked the first half of the cigarette late last night. He rarely fell asleep without the soothing smell of cloves and resin. With the Manor gone he had no access to a potions lab, and Dreamless Sleep was a potion you could buy once, even twice, but not a third time without a healer's prescription note. The DMLE was cracking down on addictive potions since the war, even on the beneficial ones. Too many people – from the Light as much as the Dark – had ended up in St Mungo's after the war, with a potion habit that wasn't easy to kick.

Draco inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs. It had been a long time since he had to cough because of the nicotin's sharp bite. Now he savoured its spiciness and the calm that settled upon him with the first smoke of the day.

From the hallway he heard Father's voice, quiet and yet filling the entire flat. But it was Mother who called Draco. He turned away from the window and stubbed the cigarette out in the pot of pink-striped azaleas. The envelope with the Hogwarts coat of arm was lying on his desk; the afternoon sun was shining on the parchment. _... regret that we cannot at this point grant you re-admission into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy._

Out in the hallway Father was getting ready to leave. Mother called Draco's name again. Draco heard another male voice, this one sounded low and oily. He recognised it instantly. So Borgin was helping Father escape from England. Cheap, Draco couldn't help thinking. Cheap as this whole springing bail scheme. One million Galleons for Lucius Malfoy's freedom. And Draco understood that Father wanted to get out of Azkaban, he understood it only too well. But he would have liked to see some remorse from Father, at least the hint of an apology for what he'd dragged them into. Father had gambled on their future, his and Mother's. Draco was not even allowed to finish his NEWTs. And all Father had offered him instead was to accompany him and live as a fugitive _until the storm ceases_ – Father's sodding words, not his.

Draco reached for his trousers, but stopped the movement in mid-air. And why not? A bubbly feeling like laughter filled his chest as he looked down at himself. The singlet he'd slept in was clean enough. And who needed a shirt and trousers on a hot day? His penis was swinging lightly as he strode barefoot to the door.

\- x -

_Sometimes I was so messed up and didn't have a clue..._

They come for him so fast he cannot Disapparate. He probably would have Splinched himself, high as he is on E. Draco is sweating underneath the Muggle clothes. He feels his blood pulsing through his body; it is thrumming in his toes and finger tips. He has learned how to fight dirty during the last four years, and this, they don't expect. He gets one punch in, shattering the fragile ridge of a nose. He jolts up his knee and makes sharp contact with a groin. He can feel the other man's pain on his tongue; it tastes of iron and satisfaction.

But it's four against one, bloody cowards, and one of them is a giant of a bloke. He holds Draco's arms back in such a vicious grip that he fears his shoulders will be dislocated. Still, he'd spit on them if he had any saliva left in his mouth.

They take his money and slap him in the face when they realise all he owns is two quid and an assortment of Sickles and Knuts.

"Poofter carries Micky Mouse money around."

Draco has no idea what Micky Mouse is. Muggle's are stupid, so bloody stupid. He is shoved down hard onto the wet asphalt and wraps his arms around his head. They always go for the head, and yes, this lot does too. Draco doesn't scream because even when he feels pain it is more like a sparkling boom whenever a blow falls. He concentrates on the burn from his latest tattoo, three orchids on his right forearm to compliment the rose over his heart and the Dark Mark on his left –

He must have lost consciousness because he wakes on a front step with birdsong in the air. It is still dark, and colder than it's been all evening. His mouth is so dry he has a coughing fit when he takes a deep breath. Then he notices the Sickles and Knuts strewn around him. And the hooded figure of a man kneeling beside him.

"Fucking Malfoy," the man mutters.

There is such disdain in his voice that Draco decides right there, with spatters of his blood on the cobbled street, that he will pull himself together. He is a Malfoy – a fucking Malfoy – and proud of it. He needs a job because Mother and he can hardly live off the measly allowance the Ministry has granted them. He needs money, and he will not think twice about spending it on elegant robes and expensive theatre tickets. Because this is what Malfoys do. He will take Mother to the Old Vic like all other of the old families do, pureblood or not, ex-Death Eater or not.

A Muggle bottle is pushed against Draco's lips, and he greedily gulps down the water. When he looks up, there is a dark fringe over eyes as green as the firs growing on the hills to the North of the Malfoy estate.

"Harry," Draco croaks and even to himself it sounds odd that he is calling the Golden Boy by his given name.

Potter chuckles and pulls his Auror robes close across his chest. "So it's Harry now. I didn't know you cared. _Draco._"

He gets up but is still watchful of Draco who struggles to his shaky feet. When Draco stands Potter gives him a nod and walks away. Draco stares after him as he disappears into the gloom. The first light of the morning alights on the roofs when Potter turns into Diagon Alley and is gone. What the fuck. He must have lost his mind to the E and it has all been a dream. But in his hand is the Muggle water bottle, and he never buys those things.

He touches his face. The skin is tender but healed with a Healing Charm. He checks his ribs and feels the bruises but nothing is broken. Saved again by the Saviour of the wizarding world. Draco is getting rather sick of it. He turns around to check for the money lying on the steps. It is then that he realises he spent the night right on the doorstep of Borgin &amp; Burkes. It goes a long way to explain why Potter was here to find him. The Ministry must have the shop observed, not that Draco is suprised.

Borgin. _Mr_ Borgin. Draco has no idea what Borgin's first name is but he will make sure to find out. For he will ask Borgin for a job, a job that pays well enough for Mother and him. Father, for all that he deserted them, has made sure Draco is privy to secrets that Borgin will not want the Ministry to know. It's time to use them.

\- x -

_This one's for the man that raised me, taught me sacrifice and bravery..._

It had been a routine potion ingredients run. Only the city was unusual. Draco had been to Bangkog (snake fangs), to Bucharest (powdered Graphorn horn), to Tasmania (billywig stings) and many other places. But he had never been to Nuuk, the capital of Greenland. Borgin sent him here for a potion ingredient Draco had never heard of, a rare crystal called cryolite. It was one of the elements in Flamel's as yet to be repeated potion to turn base metals into gold. Draco suspected Caractacus Burke was conducting alchemy experiments in the smelly backroom of Borgin &amp; Burke.

Nuuk was a jumble of brightly coloured houses, baren hillsides and spectacular sunsets over the ocean. This should have been a holiday, really, what with cryolite not even on the Ministry's list of untradeable goods. Draco had followed a tattoed stranger into a smoke-filled bar. As a rule, he did not believe in coincidence. Otherwise he would have put it down to coincidence that he now sat opposite of Father with Harry sodding Potter gagged and bound to a rickety chair a few feet away from them.

Borgin must have told Father Draco was coming to Nuuk, damn him. For five years Draco worked for Borgin &amp; Burke, and still the bastard had never as much as breathed a word about where Lucius Malfoy was hiding.

With good reason, it now seemed. Draco doubted Father's machinations reached as far as the Ministry. Which meant Potter and his Aurors were here because they had been on Draco's trail. Still tracking his every move. Sharp anger spiked in Draco but he pushed it down. This was neither the time nor place to have it out with Potter.

Cards were lying on the table, most of them face down. A stack of silver-rimmed wizarding Kronen were piled up in the middle. Draco had been playing poker with some locals when Father had walked into the door. One of the poker players, a big red-headed man who had been winning, was now standing back in the shadows. The money on the table was his. Draco slightly turned his head in the man's direction. He could be an ally if things got sticky.

"I see you still prefer to dress without a shred of taste." Father's lips twitched with what Draco knew was genuine disgust.

Lucius Malfoy wore smartly tailored midnight blue robes. They were entirely out of place in a gin joint named _Tamalaat_, which Draco had been told with a wink in the eye, meant 'all sorts of people'. _Rabble_, Father would have called the customers ten years ago. But Draco no longer knew the man in front of him.

He shrugged and turned to get his coat that he had slung over the back of the chair. Father had probably seen the rose tattoo but Draco did not want Potter to get ideas. Potter was already staring too intently at Draco's throat and the tattoo of the sun rising above his collarbones.

"How long are you going to keep him like this?" Draco pointed to Potter while he put on the coat. It was a simple, expensive cut. Muggle, but Father couldn't well find fault with _that_. With the coat, it felt too warm in the room. They had been sitting here for what seemed like hours.

"Until I get news of a safe passage out of Nuuk." Father leaned foward, closer towards Draco. "I paid for two, Draco. You could still come with me," he said softly.

The offer was ridiculous in so many ways that Draco was dumbfounded for a moment. Then he noticed the way Father slightly twisted his hands, his shoulders so stiff as if it was an effort to keep himself from – rushing away? Wrapping Draco in his arms? Draco didn't know for certain but he suspected the latter. Father missed him, him and Mother. Now that Draco looked closely, it was in Father's eyes, too, the longing. Draco bit back the sharp retort that was on his tongue.

Before he could respond, there were loud steps and raised voices from the front room of the bar. Aurors! A lot of them, by the sound of it. Potter's head snapped up.

"You're coming with us." Father stood already, wand drawn. He had Potter _Diffindo_'d from the chair in no time.

Draco got up and made eye-contact with the red-haired poker player. The man nodded, a silent assurance that he would buy them some time. Draco followed Father and an oddly compliant Potter out the back door. When he turned for a last look, the locals sat around the table as if they had been playing cards all night. The money on the table, though, was gone.

\- x -

_I've got your name written here, in a rose tattoo..._

The knock on the door is like Potter: quietly demanding, stubbornly insistent. Ever since Nuuk, Draco has known this moment will come. Now that it's here, he stands in the narrow hallway of the flat and hesitates.

Father made his escape from Greenland. This is all the news Borgin told Draco with a face so grim Draco knows Father is not pleased with him. But what else is new?

He expected some repercussions from the Ministry but none have come. No summons, no complaint, no nothing. It's as if Draco never helped a wanted man escape and never held an Auror for five hours in captivity to make it happen. At low tide in the harbour of Old Nuuk, Draco had taken the spit-soaked gag from Potter's mouth and removed the magical bonds that held him. Potter had not thanked him but he had not yelled at him, either. Because they both needed to go back to the bar, they had walked together in – mostly – silence. They had exchanged a few words about Draco's tattoos. The rose tattoo over Draco's heart was never mentioned. Still, Draco is dead certain Potter saw it, all of it.

And now Potter is on the other side of the door, waiting. Draco takes a deep breath. And lets him in.

\- x -

This story has been gorgeously illustrated by Raitala. You can see the illustrated story here: archiveofourown dot works / 1554755 [remove spaces]


End file.
